Poem: "Swords of a Singular Age"
This poem came from the June 5, 2012 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from DW user night_mare (aka morrigans_eve). It has been sponsored by Anthony & Shirley Barrette. This poem is about what happens when a newly forged sword is quenched in different types of blood, so if you dislike gore, skip it and read the other poems from June.
Swords of a Singular Age
These were the swords of a singular age,
unmatched in might,
unsurpassed in the whole of history.
They were made in a magesmith's forge
and quenched in blood,
drawing their enchantment
from that red rush of power,
for the magic was in the blood
and the blood went into every blade.
There were swords quenched in the blood of heroes
and battle was their joy, so that they sang
when any hand drew steel from its sheath
to swing free in the ravening wind.
There were swords quenched in the blood of virgins,
boys and girls still innocent of life's compromises,
blades weilded for the sake of justice alone.
There were swords quenched in menstrual blood
for the white-robed warrior-women
who went into battle at the moon's turning,
berserkers so fearsome that no man dared to face them.
There were swords quenched in birthing blood,
filled with a mother's fierce protection of her children --
and it took only one careless swing of a soldier's arm
to carve a fleeing toddler in twain
and suddenly the sky groaned with rage
and the rain ran with scarlet accusation
and the sea brewed and the land burned
until little was left upon the face of the world
but battlefields of rubble and regret.
These were the swords of a singular age,
made by the first and last magesmith,
for when he looked over the smouldering landscape
at what his creations had wrought
he taught his apprentice to quench only with water.